


Curtain Call

by dirtypenny (orphan_account)



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock - Fandom, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Gen, John Watson - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, Sherlock - Freeform, depressedlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 11:29:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/dirtypenny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Today is one of those days where John will sit at a table with a bottle of painkillers in his hand, staring at them for hours, except this time Mrs. Hudson isn’t home to snatch the pills away from him and make him a pot of coffee. Today Mrs. Hudson is attending a wedding and reluctantly left John alone.<br/>His mind is wrecked, every shred of sanity he once had is now burned to ash, settled torturously at the bottom of his mind, sometimes being blown by the gusts of John’s pain to remind him that he was once someone so much different than he was now, he was a schoolboy with rosy young cheeks and a bounce in his step. He used to have friends, people he would talk to about stupid things and cry to when in pain.<br/>If he saw himself like that, he wouldn’t recognize himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curtain Call

**Author's Note:**

> Oi! I actually posted a story that isn’t associated with LWS! (Let’s Write Sherlock) So I got inspiration to write this and I accidentally got a little carried away… Oops. This story is not directed towards any particular faith (I personally am an Atheist) but if you feel like it’s your cup of tea to imagine some sort of spiritual event in this, go right ahead! PLEASE, IF YOU ARE EASILY TRIGGERED DO NOT READ THIS AND IF YOU NEED SOME HELP PLEASE MESSAGE ME. Thank you for reading! Please tell me what you think! :)
> 
> (Later note: this fic is so fckn old and stupid and my writing sucked back then so if you still choose to read this monstrosity then please know that I don't write like this today....anyways heres wonderwall)

2 years.

2 years without Sherlock and John still barely sleeps, eats, talks, or even scarcely moves his finger to send a text. Everything, every ounce of happiness that had settled into his heart had long since fled his body, leaving his soul hopelessly limp. He used to sob with his head on the table or into his pillow, but soon the pain become so increasingly worse that it was a silencing feeling where all he could ever hear was the haunting quiet sound of his heart beating.

 

Now he’ll simply be moving the barcode of a box of cereal across the scanner when the tears will just silently roll down his face and by now he doesn’t even notice. Things like crying, pain, exhaustion- they’re all simple everyday tasks that John does without effort.

The only reason John is alive is because of Mrs. Hudson, who pitied John and let him stay in the flat even though he didn’t pay the rent, perhaps because she knows he wouldn’t make any effort to get off the streets and find another home or maybe because she pitied the sorrowful creature that he’d become. John doesn’t know the difference though- the difference between eating and not, the difference between living in a flat or living in the streets, everything was nothing now.

Almost everyone thinks that John shouldn’t be so distressed by the loss of Sherlock, that he’s being a tad melodramatic after 3 whole years.

But they don’t understand the state of John’s life when he had met Sherlock.

His sister had turned on him, continuing to drink alcohol even after John had let his parents give up John’s college funds to send her to get an education- forcing John to become an army doctor in order to get his degree. His parents hadn’t been talking to him for about 5 years and for all he knew they were dead. The war had shaken his brain badly in many different ways that confused him and left him sleepless and haunted. He was broke and alone and felt as if he had no friends in the world.

It was that state that he was in when he had met Sherlock, a non-judgemental, friendless, smart, and interesting man who needed a flattmate and accepted John even though he knew how broken he was.Though Sherlock could be childish and a tad bit nagging from time to time, it was what made up Sherlock and that’s what John loved about him. He distracted John from the horrors of his mind in the most peculiar ways possible, but that was exactly the amount of distraction John needed to escape his worries.

Sherlock didn’t know, but he had both revived and killed John at the same time.

Today is one of those days where John will sit at a table with a bottle of painkillers in his hand, staring at them for hours, except this time Mrs. Hudson isn’t home to snatch the pills away from him and make him a pot of coffee. Today Mrs. Hudson is attending a wedding and reluctantly left John alone.

His mind is wrecked, every shred of sanity he once had is now burned to ash, settled torturously at the bottom of his mind, sometimes being blown by the gusts of John’s pain to remind him that he was once someone so much different than he was now, he was a schoolboy with rosy young cheeks and a bounce in his step. He used to have friends, people he would talk to about stupid things and cry to when in pain.

If he saw himself like that, he wouldn’t recognize himself.

With slow fingers he twists the glaringly white cap of the painkillers off the bottle and sets it down, staring into the bottle in consideration.

_Sherlock always begged me to cook… he never did say anything about pre-made meals, did he?_

And thats when the tears start to dribble down his face, rolling over the lines of worry and the curve of his trembling lips.

_All I want is nothing._

He lets out a few choked noises as he lets the first little pill past his lips and crunches down on it shakily, the bitter taste reaching to touch every part of his mouth until all he tastes is his sorrow. Because that’s what his life had turned into- muck filled with self-pity and pain and terror that was forced into his mouth with a bitter taste and now he’s accepting it, finally moving his teeth to grind it all up, accept every particle and swallow it all down.

The tears flow endlessly down John’s face, trailing down the edges of his cheeks and dripping from his jawbone, splatting on the ground.

 _Falling down from my life and to the ground, just like Sherlock._ John thinks emotionlessly, slipping two more pills into his mouth, this time relishing the wretched taste and craving more and more. He pours the rest of the bottle into his hand and shoves them into his welcoming mouth.

If any suicidal ghosts were watching, they would surely be groaking at John’s sick desperation for death.

A few stray tears slide through the separation of his lower and upper lip, the saltiness flavoring the repulsively wonderful aroma. His teeth snap down at the painkillers fluidly, ignoring the sharp pain as a piece of the shrapnel of his madness gets stuck in his cheek or when he accidentally swallows one whole. Nothing actually matters any more when you know you’re about to die.

He swallows the lot anyway, even though he knows that some of them have hardly been grazed by his teeth.

John stumbles out of his seat, already beginning to feel the hazy effect of the pills kick in.

The tears are now simply flooding from his cheeks, causing his face to feel slimy. John chokes on his tears as he fumbles through the sink cabinet.

 _Nothing works fast enough_. John thinks sorrowfully, knocking just about everything over as he searches through the cabinet.

When he finds what he’s looking for he lifts the unbearably heavy plastic jug and drops it lazily onto the counter. He grabs a cup from the sink and slams it down, planning to drink from it even though it has bits of coffee grinds stuck on the inside of it.

 _Sherlock always liked it when I poured him a drink._  John thinks bitterly as he twists the cap of the bleach off of the bottle smoothly and drops it onto the ground without a care. He pours the bleach sloppily into the cup, most of it ending up on the floor.

He laughs when he sees all that he’d spilled on the floor, thinking of all the times that Sherlock had tried to show him how to pour with jirble- in which John had never really gotten the hang of. The laughing, though, only results in a river of more tears to seep from his weary pained eyes.

“Oh, Sherlock…” John utters under his breath wistfully as he picks up the glass. “How you’ve ruined me.”

He downs the bleach in a few gulps, this time the taste truly burning his throat as it goes down. He begins to choke as it slides down his throat in a fiery aroma, but makes sure that it all goes down no matter how bad it’ll hurt.

The burning acid taste reminds him of the time he was very ill and couldn’t stop throwing up. He had laid in bed for the entire week, and despite what he would have expected, Sherlock took care of him. He had helped him into the cab to the doctor’s office, carried him when his knees turned to jelly, picked up his prescription for him, and yes, even cooked his meals.

 _Underneath it all, Sherlock was always so caring…_  John thinks mournfully, setting down the cup and refilling it with the wretched bleach. And now I have no one to care for me.

And with that, John downs the glass and everything starts going fuzzy. He stumbles back and forth, slamming his back into the refrigerator several times. His stomach ached like never before and his head spun in the most painful of ways. He eventually gave up on walking and slid down the wall, a space between the counter in the fridge. He huddles up there in pain, leaning his head against the hard wood of the counter.

He stared at the island as his sister sat on it, swinging her legs happily. John squinted his eyes, barely croaking. “Harry?” Harry giggled and waved to him. “I’m turning 6 today, John! Did you get me a present? Mama said she wouldn’t get me a pony, but that’s alright because I heard we’re having ice cream cake!” She rambled girlishly, pigtails flopping about as she spoke.

John sat in silence, staring at her in confusion and wondering how a girl so innocent could have become what she was today.

Suddenly, a brown tinted bottle appears on the counter next to Harry. Harry’s head spins around to look at it, and she squeals with delight. “Ooh! Look at the pretty drink, John!” She exclaims, snatching it up with her chubby little fingers.

John’s eyes widen slightly when he realizes what the drink is and his heart pounds harder. “Harry, no!” He shouts, but she has already pressed the bottled to her innocent little lips and started chugging the bottle. And slowly she starts changing, growing taller with fuller more grown up features until she looks like the Harry today, dark circles and all. She stumbles off the counter, slurring and falling over. She slowly approaches John and whispers in her ear with a stench on her breath.

“You couldn’t do anything about it.”

And she disappears.

John’s eyes are wide but his effort is weak. His body feels frail, like any movement could cause it to fall apart. He squeezes his eyes shut as his vision shakes again. He hears someone next to him, panting and weakly saying his name.

“John…”

“John…”

John slowly opens his eyes as he recognizes the voice. Sure enough, Lance Corporal Williams leaned against the counter next to him, hands clutching his stomach.

“John, help me…” He wheezes, turning his dirt smeared face to look at John. “John, I’ve been shot, please.”

John is completely paralyzed with horror and shock. It was exactly as he remembered it, Lance Corporal Williams sitting down leaning against a stone wall begging for John’s help.

“Please, John. I’m your friend, remember?” He says desperately, a weak pleading look on his face. “I… I promised Darcy I would come back.”

“I…” John whispers, choking on his words. “I… can’t help you. I don’t know what to do… You’re not re… you’re not…” John stutters on every word he says. He has long since forgotten the divider between what is real and what is not. He doesn’t trust anything he sees and he can’t even begin know what to think about Lance Corporal Williams sitting in his kitchen. Or was the kitchen not real too…?

“Please, John, you gotta help me!” He shouts, white teeth contrasting against his dirt and blood pasted face. “JOHN, DON’T YOU DARE LEAVE ME HERE! JOHN!”

He starts screaming hysterically, begging for John to help him, pleading.

Yes, it was exactly as John remembered it.

He didn’t save him. He couldn’t save him. This man died begging for John’s help, he died needing to see his daughter again and John couldn’t do anything.

And then Lance Corporal Williams’ muscles all relaxed at once and his lips barely moved to whisper, “You couldn’t do anything about it.”

And just like Harry, Lance Corporal Williams vanished from John’s sight.

John kept staring at the spot in shock, silence heavy around him. Nothing happened. Not a single thing stirred.

And then John began to scream and scream until his voice went raw. He doesn’t care if the neighbors hear him and call Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Hudson will be coming home to John’s limp body and there was no longer anything she could do for the raggedy mad man who lived a life that should have never even happened. Who lived a life that John took the liberty to end.

~*~

John hallucinated for the next half hour, getting to experience some of his greatest miseries.

The finale?

Sherlock.

Of course.

But after John got the pleasure of seeing Sherlock mutilated corpse, he finally feels some sort of peace settle over him. He slumps, releasing all the tension from his body and leans his head against the counter.

He stares at the fake potted plant that had always rested on the island until it grows blurry.

And then the darkest of curtains slowly pull over his eyes and the show is over, the last scene has been through and John has taken his bow. John Watson’s life, short lived and tainted with sorrow.

And in the darkness, something contrasts. A sculpted perfect porcelain face interrupts the dark color and comes fully into view, his dark curls almost becoming lost in the blackness.

The man smiles sheepishly, hands in pockets. “Hey, John.”

John takes a moment to stare at him. He expects his heart to jump, his brain to explode with questions. But now John doesn’t feel a lot, his entire body feels fuzzy and numb.

So he smiles back. “Hey, Sherlock.” He replies calmly, his eyes resting gently on Sherlock’s green eyes. His mind wavers slightly in weakness.

“Is it over?” He asks, knowing his words all leaned on the need for reassurance.

Sherlock smiles and takes John’s hand. “Yeah, John, it’s all finally over.”


End file.
